


As Above, Home Below

by Dadbeat



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Dinner Date, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25338130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dadbeat/pseuds/Dadbeat
Summary: The Warrior of Light takes Emet-Selch to see what matters most to him.
Relationships: Emet-Selch/mWoL, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch & Warrior of Light, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Original Character(s), Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light, referenced Haurchefant/mWoL
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	As Above, Home Below

**Author's Note:**

> This is my cleaned-up entry from the Convocation's anniversary fic contest. I really wanted to add more but it ended at such a good natural spot that I decided to stop and write the other bit as a loose 2-parter. Once again a big thank you to the all the Convocation who encourage me to keep creating. Hope you enjoy o/

Brightness floods his vision. Throwing an arm ‘cross his eyes, Emet-Selch’s instincts take over. Jerking backwards he hisses a curse, hoping his arcane defenses are enough to escape in time. Light of this magnitude would leave him grievously injured regardless but if he entered the Rift quickly enough, perhaps--

A hand grasps his wrist, gently; fingers rough with wear rub soothing circles in his palm.  
“Gods, I forget how sunny it gets here, sometimes.” Then, added, automatically, “Sorry.” 

The fog of panic lifts under that same sun, revealing bleached grey flagstones to his squinted gaze. 

“Can’t see how you could forget,” the ascian gripes. He’s still tense, curled about himself like some sort of wounded creature, but it’s quickly overtaken by a weary agitation. Of all the things to have a fit over...how utterly _embarrassing._ “Or how you can cavort about without a hat, for that matter.” Thumb and forefingers press together and the crisp noise of his snap echoes through Ishgard’s aetheryte plaza - the area going mercifully darker as a sun hat materializes on his head, and on his companion’s, as well.

“Hmph.” Emet-Selch adjusts the brim further down as he stares pointedly up at the larger man. Altruoix’s scratching the back of his neck, looking terribly sheepish at the oversight. Beneath that, though, he spies more - the subtle twitch of an ear while his lips curve down just so; the steel of the man’s soul flickering in alarm.

Pulling free of Altruoix he shrugs exaggeratedly. “Just give me warning next time. I’ve already been surprised enough today by your amateur _planning_.”

It’s Altruoix’s turn to be offended. “That I could not decide what to wear is solely _your_ doing,” he replies with a huff. “I had a perfectly good outfit picked up, but you had to second guess it, and _ridicule_ it--”

“I made _one comment_ about your cufflinks and you took it to the extreme, hero. That is _your_ problem, not mine.”

The bickering continues as they make their way down the street, jabs at one thing or another occasionally escalating in volume before quickly dropping back to normal tones. Passersby might mistake it for a true conflict, but both Emet-Selch and Altruoix have seen enough masks to recognize each other’s own - callousness smothering anxiety and old hurts.

Today is supposed to be _happy_. They will not ruin it for each other. So they play the game, take their spots on the stage. At some point during the walk their hands entwine, each clinging to the other despite the verbal blows and the tittering of passersby.

He manages victory at the last moment - a final shot as the warrior hesitates at the door of Fortemps manor. Then it opens, revealing an elder elezen and the game is forgotten, anything further dying on his tongue because Altruoix is **_beaming_ ** and Zodiark help him it’s so beautiful and bright and no sun hat can protect him from this.

 _“Salut, papa!”_ The Warrior nearly bowls the elezen over in his eagerness to greet him, the motion reciprocated by Edmont de Fortemps as the two embrace. _“Tu m'as trop manqué.”_

“Only a few moons,” the count corrects, chuckling warmly as he pulls back, waving a manservant over who takes their coats. “Though with how you tirelessly work, it must feel an eternity. I would tell you to rest, but I suspect it would do little good, as I’m sure your companion knows.” The look the count gives Emet-Selch is entirely too sly for his liking, and he has half a mind to fill the man in - if only to deflect from the scrutiny.

“Ah, but pray forgive me. I am getting ahead of myself.” He turns back to Altruoix. “Doubtless you are eager to introduce the handsome man to me. You suggested the dinner, after all.”

Altruoix goes beet red at this, and Emet-Selch decides that perhaps the surrogate father is not so terrible - even with his worrying prescience.

  
  


The dinner itself is nice enough, though with Altruoix’s fretting he had expected a more opulent affair.

But he supposed there was no need for such things. During his time as Emperor the things had been distractions from the state of the world and plans upon plans he’d wrought. 

Now? The warrior is distraction enough; he inquires from everything about the latest fashion trends to the progress on the city’s restoration efforts (though he needn’t have asked, having so recently contributed. The ascian himself had, too, if you counted improving the firepower of the aetheromatic auger by several orders of magnitude - which he did, of course.)

Count Edmont takes the probing in stride as only an elder statesman is able, and Emet-Selch suspects he is just pleased that Altruoix continues to visit despite his service being complete.

In any case, it was relatively simple, and quite nice. Altruoix cuts a lovely figure as he eats and talks, completely at ease with Emet-Selch content to watch. But he can’t remain quiet for long - it’s just not in his nature.

“Only _three_ forks?” he teases, as they work through their cheese course. “You could have come in pajamas. We fought over your clothes for nothing.”

“We always fight over the pettiest of things,” Altruoix replies airily - but the stiffening of his back gives himself away. “We would have found something else.”

_Not always so petty._

“It brings me such joy to know you care enough to pester me incessantly, hero.” He finishes his plate a touch too quickly, eager to move on with the meal - and the conversation. 

_He’d nearly--_ **_had_ ** _died, to be honest._

“Last I checked, it was the other way ‘round.” Altruoix stands up. There’s a slight trembling in his right hand. “Apologies, _papa_ , but I need a smoke. I’ll be out on the terrace.” 

He leaves, glass of wine in hand, already fumbling for a cigarette before he’s even left the dining room.

The silence that remains in his wake is thick before it’s cut with a sigh from the count.

“Well,” he says, refilling his own glass, “he did not take the bottle.” After a pause, he continues. “That’s a good sign, if you did not know.”

“Oh,” Emet-Selch replies, swiping a piece of cheese from Altruoix’s unfinished plate, “I do know. But the smoking is worse. Terrible habit.”

“An understandable one, after everything.” The count’s head bows. “Yet despite it all, a true knight through and through.”

Emet-Selch can’t help but roll his eyes. “Maddeningly selfless, you mean.”

“Hah!” Edmont finishes his glass. “Quite right. A knight lives to serve.”

He has no good response to this. Edmont speaks true, but Emet-Selch would rather face another hole in the torso than admit such a thing.

Euclid deserved more. Altruoix deserves more.

_They’d all deserved more._

“I will not pretend to understand who or what you are, ser Hades.” He’s startled back to reality by his name. “But if there is one thing I may claim to understand, it’s a knight’s heart.”

“Oh?” He forces his face into a faux-inquisitive look.

“A knight loves fiercely - for how else can he step, shield aloft on the front lines of battle? How else may he take blows for his fellow man?”

The count’s voice hitches, at the end. Little surprise, from what Altruoix had deigned to mention.

“But a knight may also become reserved in how he shows that affection. He will fight many battles - some wins, some losses. All with terrible hurts. He may find those harsh realities his to bear alone, for he cannot stand to see innocents suffer.”

Emet-Selch goes deathly still. Vaguely he feels his nails cut into his ungloved palms, chest tightening with an ache he is afraid to name. 

“I am glad he found you.” The smile Emet-Selch is given is unbearably sad. “After Starlight, I-- well, that is not my story to tell. Perhaps an enterprising writer with a chocobo in the race will get to it, in time.”

Starlight was...he struggles to recollect all the frivolous Eorzean holidays, but it must have occurred while he was gone.

“So he did mention me to you.”

“More like I prised it out of him.” Edmont appears to struggle with whether he should disclose further. “Please understand, I _feared_ for him. Whatever occurred troubled him. Deeply. I had not seen him like that since-”

“-Since Haurchefant.” Emet-Selch finishes. “He, ah, told me, by the way. My condolences.”

“You know why I worry, then.” 

_A lone man haunts a dead city beneath the waves. His tears will not stop._

“Of course.”

_There is so much he does not remember. He weeps all the more for those gaps._

_Digging at the bones of the world he dredges up fragments of what yet may be saved from the ashes._

_He prays it will be enough to fulfill that final wish._

“Only a knight’s comrade in arms may see behind his guard - may stand shoulder to shoulder with him to protect his flank.” The door behind Edmont creaks. Altruoix re-enters, smelling of smoke.  
Edmont doesn’t bother to lower his voice. The warrior’s hearing is much too good. So he instead turns, and gives him a gentle smile. “Take care of each other, won’t you?”

Emet-Selch did not know that a cough could sound confused, but Altruoix manages it. He still looks a tad melancholy, but clearly the tobacco and the clearing of his head have helped.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Tch.” Edmont’s hand is warm in Emet-Selch’s as he leans over the table to cover it with his own. A smile twitches at the corners of his wine-stained lips as the count’s eyes grow wide as saucers. 

He needs not speak his oath. It’s writ plain on his face and his soul, the barest glimpse leaking through their physical contact.

_ <<Each Tomorrow and Tomorrow until eternity.>> _

It’s over in a second. Emet-Selch leans back, grinning, and Edmont shares the grin - leaving a now thoroughly baffled and more-than-slightly worried Altruoix to take his place at the table for dessert.

\---

“Dare I ask what you and _pa--_ the count talked about?” 

“You’ve already dared.” Emet-Selch’s look is as serene as their surroundings - the evening sun has dipped behind Ishgard’s spires, cutting dazzling rainbow shapes across their path. A lone tendril of self winds the space between them before being snatched in a fist. There’s a dangerous glow in Altruoix’s eyes as he regards the offering.

“Oh, save your ire, hero.” He swats Altruoix’s fist away, allowing the tendril to wrap bracelet-like about the other’s wrist instead. Then, kinder - “It was nothing untoward, I assure you. The count was just-”

The tendril squeezes, encouragingly.

Altruoix lets out breath he did not know he held. “He frets over me, then? I should have known.”

“He mentioned Starlight, but did not go into details. Tactful man.” 

They pause at the cathedral’s overlook. Altruiox traces the play of light and dark along the railing, teeth worrying at his lip.

“Gods, I was a mess, then. It was so cold, I couldn’t help thinking of Ilsabard, and--”

Emet-Selch shushes him with a finger to the lips. They lapse into an understanding, then - his head lolls against Altruoix’s shoulder as they regard the sunset, bodies pressed together against the gathering chill of night.

“Awful place to put a city.” He means it. Arse end of nowhere in the mountains, no access to the sea, cold as anything.

“No worse than the bottom of an ocean.” It doesn’t sting. He knows Altruoix doesn’t mean it in that way.

“You still keep going back. I must have done something right.”

“You did.” 

Altruoix’s head turns, his mouth seeking, then capturing, Emet-Selch’s. They hold there for a while, just exploring, tasting the last sweetness of the traditional Fortemps cakes mingled with the bitterness of tea (Emet-Selch’s), and coffee (Altruoix’s). The latter is the first to pull away, to rumble a continuation of his prior thought. It’s thick with sorrow, longing - joy, relief.

“You brought me home.”

Emet-Selch feels numb at the words, but not a bad numb. It's the detached lightheadedness of euphoria with the confirmation that even as he suffocated under that final despair it _hadn’t_ been for naught. 

How fitting, then, that they stood here, in another home at the edge of the world. That he now was taken by the warrior to _see._

“Awful place to put a city,” Emet-Selch repeats, tapping his chin, “but it may be improved. The first step, I think, will be to defile some of your _papa’s_ sheets.”

The whole of Ishgard can hear Altruoix’s laugher, clean and pure and full.

**_“Splendid.”_ **


End file.
